


Look at Last on Meadows

by roamingbadger



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, discussion of trauma, dispelling the ghosts, or as faramir calls it, wedding night jitters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-18 01:53:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20631146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roamingbadger/pseuds/roamingbadger
Summary: He had conquered battlefields. He had turned away from the call of the One Ring. But he could not bring himself to venture this thing, this one thing that felt suddenly more important than the fate of all mankind.Or, Faramir and Éowyn celebrate their wedding night.





	Look at Last on Meadows

**Author's Note:**

> Greetings everyone! First disclaimer: I've read the LOTR books, but it's been many years, so I had to do some googling on this one. I hope none of the mistakes ruin the story for you. Second disclaimer: I could not help feeling that these two beloved fictional children had a lot of shared trauma between them. So, naturally, they have to talk about it a lot before they can bone. LOL. Please enjoy the result of that thought entering my head... 
> 
> Finally, the title comes from the second verse of "The Road Goes Ever On and On" by JRR Tolkien:  
_Roads go ever ever on_  
Under cloud and under star,  
Yet feet that wandering have gone  
Turn at last to home afar.   
Eyes that fire and sword have seen  
And horror in the halls of stone  
Look at last on meadows green  
And trees and hills they long have known.

Faramir expected his new wife to be shy of him. It was, he had heard, what new wives did. This was muttered around the fire when his men were weary and missing home—_Remember how sweet she’d look when she was blushing, _they’d say—and in his limited experience, he thought it might be true.

What he did not expect was that he would be shy of her.

She looked so beautiful in the candlelight, glorious and yet vulnerable. Her long, fair hair had been brushed out over her shoulders like a golden veil. Her eyes shone with curiosity and hesitation. She wore only a translucent shift. Beside them, their marriage bed awaited, strewn with sweet-smelling flowers and adorned with sheets of white. The fire crackled. The air grew expectant, as expectant as Éowyn looked.

_Take her in your arms. Kiss her. Do it, before you lose your courage. _

She spoke before he could move. “Your hair looks so red in this light.”

He raised a hand to it as if he’d forgotten he _had _hair. “It changes like that sometimes.” He winced at the awkwardness. How could two people who had heard each other’s near-dying breaths now be as strangers?

Éowyn stepped closer, lifting a hand to his head as he had done. Her fingers curled into his fresh-washed hair. He sighed with pleasure as they brushed against his skull. “I like it,” she said. A soft smile brushed her lips. His heart pounded in his ears.

_Do it now. _

But he could not.

He covered her hand with his roughened palm and lowered it, stepping away. He was far beneath this woman, he thought, and he had realized it far too late. “You must be tired,” he heard himself say. “Today has been long, and sleep awaits.”

Eowyn frowned. She pulled her hand free of him. “It is not _sleep _I’m waiting for,” she began, but he turned away toward the corner of the room, pretending not to hear. His face burned.

_Coward. _

He had conquered battlefields. He had turned away from the call of the One Ring. But he could not bring himself to venture this thing, this one thing that felt suddenly more important than the fate of all mankind.

He undressed quickly, removing his tight-fitting hose but not his tunic, which hung to his knees. Eowyn stood where he’d left her, and he felt her eyes on him, which made his face burn more. When he was finished undressing, he went around the room slowly and sedately, blowing out each candle in turn.

She gave in before he reached the fire. When he was finished banking it, he found her curled up beneath the sheets of their marriage bed.

Her eyes were closed. But he did not think she was sleeping.

#

When Faramir awoke the next morning, it was to warmth and the smell of flowers and something soft pressing against his hardness. He sighed, and when he opened his eyes, found himself wrapped around Eowyn’s body from behind. He froze. His nose was buried in her hair—that was the sweet smell. And his arms curved over her waist, her breast. She was warm against the slight chill of the morning air.

She felt—safe.

It took all his strength to pull away.

He unwound himself without waking her. He dressed quickly, choosing more casual wear than his marriage tunic, and hurried out to the stables. Aragorn’s household was only just awakening to light fires in hearths and along hallways. Outside, dawn slotted ribbons of gold across the White City. Banners hung the day prior in celebration of Faramir and Eowyn’s union looked tired and wilted beneath the new light.

The stables were a relief. Nothing of celebration lingered here, only the smell of hay and horseflesh. When Faramir passed Windfola’s stable, Eowyn’s gray mare whickered at him, almost as if to punish him for abandoning her mistress.

“I know,” he muttered. “But I just couldn’t—”

“Now this is unexpected,” said a familiar voice. “Faramir son of Denethor communing with the horses, and not his lady wife.”

Faramir turned to greet Aragorn with what he hoped was a welcoming smile. “You mean Eowyn is normally with the horses.”

“No, I mean you should be with her instead of here.” Aragorn’s face turned somber. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing. I wanted to take an early ride.”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow. “An early ride.”

“To check the damage on the southwestern ramparts. I know it was being repaired only yesterd—”

“Who told you that? I forbade the household from bothering my steward this sevennight.”

“No one,” said Faramir. Then, guiltily: “I overheard Gimli in the courtyard yesterday morn.”

Aragorn muttered something too quiet for Faramir to catch. “Very well. Take your ride. But I have ordered a fine breakfast sent to your room in two hours, and I should hate for all that food to go to waste.”

“Éowyn will be hungry.”

Aragorn stopped Faramir with a hand on his shoulder. The strength in that palm bade Faramir stand still and meet his king’s gaze. “See that she does not eat alone.”

Somehow it did not feel like a request.

#

Éowyn woke to the sound of her bedchamber door closing behind her husband’s footsteps.

“My husband.” She had to say the words out loud just to believe them. They tasted strange on her tongue. She sat up, blinking away the daze of a far more comfortable sleep than she’d had in a long time. The room was cold.

Her husband, but only in name.

What was wrong with her? That was all she could think as she pulled the blankets to her chin. Perhaps he had seen the scars on her arm from the witch-king’s shield-shattering blow. Perhaps he found her, after all, unappealing. Or perhaps he found her cold. She had been called that before, and sometimes, when the darkness encroached upon her dreams and she lay awake at midnight, she believed it.

Perhaps she could not love.

She had hardened her heart so many times over the years: against her parents’ deaths, then her cousin’s, then her uncle’s—she wondered if she had lost all ability to soften it again. Perhaps the Houses of Healing provided only a brief thaw, and this, this frigidity, was her true self.

She threw off the blankets and dressed in shivering cold. Her hair she yanked roughly back into a plait and tied off with a simple ribbon. She could not even look at the finery of her wedding dress hanging in her adjoining dressing chamber. She put on men’s clothes instead. She did not want to be Éowyn this cold morning. Dernhelm would suit her instead.

She went slowly to the stables, careful not to be seen by the king’s household staff. The sun was already above the walls of Minas Tirith by the time she led Windfola out the southern gate. Only one man tried to hail her, and he backed away when he realized she wore the colors of Rohan.

He could not have known she was the White Lady of Rohan. Wife to the Steward of Gondor.

A steward who could not wait to leave her side.

Once beyond the gate, Éowyn needed only to whisper to her horse for Windfola to leap into a gallop. The wind tore off Éowyn’s cap and tugged her long hair loose from its plait. She felt the ribbon come untied, but she hardly cared: she was smiling. She felt herself again.

She felt _free. _

She had not gone far enough, however, when another horse and rider caught her eye. They were moving opposite her, toward the city, and she wasn’t planning to pull up until she realized who they were. Her husband and Fleetfoot.

Éowyn looked about for an escape, but there was none. It was too late; he’d seen her. She saw his horse abruptly jerk from a gallop to a canter to a trot, and nudged Windfola to do the same.

By the time she rode up to meet him, Fleetfoot stood perfectly still.

“Good morning,” Éowyn said, with far more calm than she felt. She imagined how she must look to him: hair everywhere, cheeks red, dressed in men’s clothing. It was no wonder he could not bring himself to touch her.

“Good morning,” he said stiffly in reply. He seemed to look beyond her, toward the city, and then away.

“Will you—walk with me a while?” she asked, before she could stop herself. _Curse you, Éowyn. _She tried to bite her tongue, but too late. She could not help wanting to be beside him.

“Gladly,” he said. Was that relief in his voice? She could not tell, for he was climbing from his horse and his hair fell over his face. She dismounted as well, and they left their horses to munch the grass together. 

While they walked, he stood close enough to her that she could feel the warmth from his body, the brush of his sleeve against hers. She took comfort in that. After a while he said, “So Dernhelm rides again.”

She blushed, but there was no disapproval in his voice. Instead she thought she heard amusement. “He attracts less attention than Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan.”

“You mean Éowyn, Lady of Ithilien.”

She cursed her clumsy tongue. Of course. She was married now, to the Prince of Ithilien, King Elessar’s steward. “I’m still getting used to it,” she admitted, hoping he would not take offense.

On the contrary, he smiled. “So am I.” A look of understanding passed between them, and Éowyn felt her cheeks heat further. Then Faramir looked away. “It’s strange,” he said, more distant now. “To feel such happiness, when we walk upon a hundred graves.”

Éowyn’s step faltered, and she almost stumbled. Faramir caught her elbow, and for just a moment, she thought he would keep hold of her. But the moment passed, and he let go.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I shouldn’t say such things.”

She stopped, forcing him to stop as well. “Don’t apologize,” she said. “You can always say those things to me.”

He blinked, taken aback, and they began walking again in uncomfortable silence. Éowyn traced the path of their feet through low-lying gorse and fresh green grass. Though autumn was on the air, the morning sun promised one last summer day. Yet her heart felt cold again. Faramir was right. Beneath their feet were the bones of those lost in the Battle of Pelennor Fields.

In her arm was the ghost of the witch-king’s blow. She shifted until the pain passed. Faramir frowned, but said nothing.

He could not speak of the battlefield to her. Perhaps he was also realizing he could not love a woman who was battle-hardened.

Rather than feel hurt, Éowyn felt almost numb. Of course it would be this way. She had been foolish to imagine otherwise. Faramir was no more than Aragorn had been—an impossible dream.

“I should get back,” she said, already turning toward Windfola. “I have to prepare for the journey to Ithilien.”

Faramir’s soft gray eyes looked almost hurt. “We don’t leave for three days.” Then he glanced away, and Éowyn wondered if she had imagined it. “But you’re right. Duty calls.”

Is that how he thought of his life with her? As a duty? Éowyn mounted her horse clumsily, and Windfola shied beneath her. Faramir stood beside Fleetfoot, watching her face. She let her hair fall across her features. She wasn’t sure she wanted him to see.

#

After they had cared for their horses, Faramir followed Éowyn up the steps of the Citadel. “King Elessar has ordered us a wedding breakfast,” he said, against his better judgment. King’s demand or not, he could not bear the look of pain on Éowyn’s face when she was with him. 

She hesitated, and he held his breath. But then she said, “That was kind. I’m famished.”

So they climbed to their bedchamber, a shared room with adjoining dressing quarters for each. When they entered the room, Faramir felt a twist of shame, remembering his wedding tunic crumpled in his dressing room. But the household servants had come and cleaned the room. The wedding flowers were gone, replaced with white lilies on the bedside table. A fresh fire warmed the room, and beside it, a table heaped with food to break their fast.

Éowyn went to the corner first, where a small pitcher held clean water. She poured some into a porcelain bowl and rinsed her hands, then her face, then the back of her neck. Faramir watched, spellbound, as she moved aside her silken hair. His fingers twitched with longing to touch it.

She glanced up, and he looked away. His ears felt hot.

Once he had washed his hands, he joined her beside the fire. She had already poured them each a cup of sweet mead. Honey mead. A wedding gift from Legolas—the honey mead of the elves.

She closed her eyes as she sipped, and a small moan of pleasure escaped her lips. “It’s delicious.”

Faramir shifted, suddenly uncomfortable, yet he could not resist tasting it himself. As he lifted the cup to his lips, Éowyn’s eyes opened, watching him expectantly. The mead was cool, slightly below room temperature. As it passed his lips, he tasted sweetness like fresh stream water and the delicate tartness of a crisp apple. It was richer than honey. It was like molten gold.

He set his drink down, licking his lips. Did Éowyn’s eyes fall lower on his face as he did so? The idea made his ears heat again. “I’ve tasted nothing like it,” he said. His voice sounded hoarse—and that wasn’t exactly true. He found himself remembering the way Eowyn’s lips had tasted when first he kissed her, in the Houses of Healing. Sweeter than any brew, man-made or elf-made or made by any being on Middle Earth.

He was a fool to think he could live with respectable distance between them. He loved her. There was nothing more to it than that. “Éowyn—” he began.

But she cut him off. “And look! Fresh apples from the orchards beyond Edoras. I must thank my brother for these.”

The longing in her voice, the sadness, stopped Faramir’s tongue.

Perhaps she would not be happy in Ithilien.

Perhaps she wanted to go home.

He managed an idle comment about the apples, and they ate in silence after that. So much awkwardness between them now, when they were meant to be as one. Even the mead lost its sweetest, after a while.

When they were finished, Éowyn stood so abruptly that her chair scraped against the floor. “I’m going to speak with Beregond about our journey,” she said.

“I’ll come with you.”

“No, don’t bestir yourself,” she said softly. She was already halfway to the door. “The household, after all, is a woman’s business.”

He did not think he imagined the bitterness in those words. But it was too late to reply to her. She was already gone.

#

Faramir did not return to their chamber until well after nightfall. If King Elessar noticed him out helping batten down the ramparts before the encroaching storm, the king said nothing. But Faramir read disapproval, or perhaps confusion, in his soft brown eyes.

Éowyn was already curled beneath the blankets, her breaths coming long and deep. Sleeping. Faramir put out the candles that she had left burning for him and undressed in the dark. Sliding in beside her in his tunic, it took all his strength not to gather her in his arms. _I’m sorry_, he could say. _I didn’t think I was worthy of you. Forgive me. _But he turned his back to her and tried to sleep.

He was woken later by a clap of thunder. The soft footsteps of rain followed after. He lay in the dark, willing himself back to sleep. But it was not to be. After another clap of thunder, he heard something else: a gentle whimper . . .

He turned. Lightning cracked the sky, and Faramir caught a glimpse of Éowyn’s face. Tears glistened on her cheeks, but her eyes were closed. She was dreaming.

“Éowyn,” he said, touching her shoulder gently. “Wake up.”

She shifted her head into her pillow, the muscles of her throat cording up.

“Éowyn—” he tried again, slipping closer to her, but suddenly she shouted “No!” and jerked upright.

He raised himself up on an elbow, rubbing circles on her back. “It’s all right,” he said in his softest voice. “You were dreaming. It wasn’t real.”

She sank slowly back to the bed. Her face was even more drawn and pale than usual, her eyes haunted by whatever she had seen. He stayed beside her, up on his elbow, one hand smoothing tears from her face. “Are you all right?” he asked.

She shut her eyes, hard, and more tears slipped out. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I have nightmares . . .”

“Don’t apologize.” He brushed the new tears away. “I have them, too.”

Her eyes blinked open. Their faces were close together, so close, and he could feel the rise and fall of her breaths. “Do you want to tell me about it?” he asked.

She hesitated.

“I find that it helps dispel the ghosts,” he murmured.

She met his eyes again and took in a deep breath. “I’ve had it before, many times.”

“The witch-king?” he ventured.

“No. This one is different. It started before I even rode to battle. It’s—here, in Minas Tirith. It always begins with a funeral pyre.”

His heart went cold.

“Someone’s building up the sticks,” she continued. “And then they pour the oil upon it. And finally, finally, I see the body. His skin is pale, his dress black, but I can never see his face. Only his chest. His shallow breathing. I can always see it. He’s—he’s still alive, Faramir. They’re burning him alive.” And she closes her eyes again, releasing a great, shuddering breath.

“Éowyn . . .”

“I know it’s wrong to dream of him. But I can’t explain it. It’s like . . . when I see him there . . . my heart weeps for him . . . but there’s nothing I can do—”

“It was me.”

Her eyes flashed open, silver in the darkness. “What?”

A crash of thunder. Faramir waited for it to fade. “It was me. You dreamt—you dream—of me.”

“But—but how—?”

“That, I do not know.” He brushed her cheek again, though the tears had already dried. “Perhaps because we were fated for one another.”

Her eyes were too shadowed to read. “You think so?”

How it hurt to hear the hesitation in her voice. He pulled back, sitting up, and she sat up also, resting against the pillows at her back. “I know it,” he said.

“But . . .” She stopped, chewing her lip. Then she said, “But how did you survive?” Somehow it did not seem like the question she originally meant to ask.

“Pippin. And Beregond. And Gandalf.” His voice cracked as he remembered. “They stopped the servants from lighting the fire. And convinced my father—”

“Your _father?_” she cried.

And this was why he had not told her the tale. Shame melted through him. “You know my father had no love for me,” he said hollowly. “He went mad, in the end. It was he who tried to burn me, believing me dead.” He turned to face the fire, afraid of what he might see in her eyes. To know he was unloved by his _own father_—how could he expect love from her?

He jumped as her hand brushed his hair away from his face. She slid closer to him, climbing up on her knees to face him. Her hands cupped his cheeks. “My love,” she said. “Tomorrow I will go to Beregond and thank him on my knees for saving your life. And I would do it for Pippin and Gandalf as well, if they were here. For your life is the most precious thing to me. More precious even than my own.”

His hands rose to cover hers. “How can you say that?” he asked, though her words made his throat tight.

“Without you I would be as cold and empty as a tomb,” she said.

He lowered their hands to his lap, twining his fingers through hers. Outside, the rain dulled to a low murmur. “Éowyn. You value yourself too little. You—you have endured more than anyone I know, and come out the stronger for it.” A sad smile. “I am not worthy of you.”

“Is that what you think?” Wonder in her eyes, in her voice.

He raised her hands and kissed them. “It’s what I _know.”_

“And that’s why . . .” 

His ears grew warm. He stared at their entwined hands. “I wanted everything to be perfect for you. But . . . I have a confession to make. I’ve . . . I’ve never . . .”

A choked noise. He looked up. Was she crying—? No. No, she was trying not to _laugh. _His whole chest opened up, as if a sheet of mail had been lifted off him, and he grinned.

“You, Faramir, my dearest love—you _fool_—”

“I didn’t want to hurt you!”

“And in avoiding that, you hurt me here.” She raised their hands to the spot between her breasts. They both sobered. “But it’s all right,” she said. “You make me love you even more.” She leaned forward to kiss him. The kiss was tender, testing, but he tasted the urgency behind it, and felt an answering urgency himself. He freed his hands and snaked them up into her hair, running his fingers through it at last. It was like silk; it was like smooth water.

After a long time, she pulled back, breathless. “Wait,” she said. He brushed his thumb across her cheek. “Will you promise that there will be no more secrets between us?”

His heart warmed. He did not think it possible to feel more, but she could always prove him wrong. “I promise,” he said. “And you?”

She smiled. “Does Dernhelm count?”

“On the contrary, I look forward to riding beside him. Frequently.” Faramir pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

“Really?” Her question was soft, unbelieving.

“How else am I rebuild Ithilien? He’s my greatest strategist.” He trailed kisses down her chin, to her neck. She tasted like the perfume she wore: something fresh and wild, like the flowers that grew outside in the fields. “And he tastes better than elvish mead.”

He felt her smile. “Then I promise.” But her words faded into a low sound as his lips lingered in the sensitive place beneath her ear. She moved so that her knees were astride him, letting her hair fall about them like a curtain.

After that, they did not need words.

#

Three days later, as they set out to ride to their new home in Ithilien, Éowyn thought for the first time in her life that she might be slightly uncomfortable riding.

And the thought made her smile secretly to herself.

When her husband passed her with heavy saddlebags, catching her expression, he smiled, too. She liked how his ears turned red with a faint blush as he paused to brush his lips across her cheek.

“Careful,” she said. “Your men will think you’ve gone mad.” She was dressed as Dernhelm.

His lips trailed to her neck, making her shiver. Into her ear he murmured, “They’d better get used to it.”

A low clearing of the throat made them both stand abruptly upright. King Elessar watched with benevolent amusement. Éowyn felt her own cheeks turn red at the realization. “Your majesty,” she said weakly, caught between a curtsy and a bow.

He laughed. Aragorn actually _laughed _as she tried to straighten herself out. Faramir, rising from his own bow, grinned at her. “My lady,” said Aragorn, stepping forward. “You need to work on your bow.”

“Forgive me, your majesty.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” Aragorn clasped her shoulder, then Faramir’s. “Safe journey, both of you. I know Emyn Arnen is safe in your hands.”

They rode out of Minas Tirith at the head of their column. If anyone wondered where the White Lady of Rohan had gone, no one asked. Éowyn began to suspect that Dernhelm would be the worst kept secret in all Ithilien. But as she glanced across at her husband, his gray eye smiling at her, she realized that was exactly as she hoped it would be.

“You can ride ahead,” he said to her, raising his voice over the sound of their company. He flicked his chin. He must have known how much she loved to gallop, to feel the wind in her hair. But not today. Today, she would enjoy the journey.

“I’m in no hurry,” she called back. She looked ahead, at the path that would carry them to their new home. “No hurry at all.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it! <3 Thank you for reading!


End file.
